


just an animal looking for a home

by shipwrecks



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Coda, Croatia NT, FIFA World Cup 2018, Fumbling Handjobs, M/M, Old Marrieds, slightly less fumbling handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-08-29 10:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16742575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwrecks/pseuds/shipwrecks
Summary: “Can you not stay up?” Luka asks him from the bed where he’s just sat cross-legged. “Can’t handle your vodka anymore—” hetsks“you’re getting old.”





	just an animal looking for a home

**Author's Note:**

> glennifer, oct 6 2018: i am completely 100% Feelings Free about charlie and luka and mundial 18!!!  
> narrator: she was not, in fact, feelings free
> 
> just a lil coda to [_if someone asks, this is where i'll be_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16206425) because im nothing if not little king trashmouth to a fault. this is TECHNICALLY porn with incredibly little plot, but im a scorpio so i love a good gratrunka. title again from talking heads because 'this must be the place' has such particularly luka/charlie-shaped thorns. let me die peacefully now, vatreni.

 

_This is the whole reason you play: to win your country a World Cup!_

– KELLEY O'HARA

 

_The World Cup is a very complicated tournament - six games, seven if you make it to the final - and maybe if you lose one game you're out, even if you're the best._

– PELE  

 

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s the most Kova’s ever had to drink.”

“Oh it absolutely is,” Charlie immediately retorts, “because I was there the last time Kova had the most he’d ever had to drink. And I gave him a lot more this time.”

Eight hours to get to the city center from the airport. Half a million people there waiting for them. The whole thing’s surreal even without the fact that Luka’s been more or less constantly drinking since Sunday night. He’s a little afraid to stop, if he’s honest—with each drink shoved into his hands— _thanks Charlie_ —the oncoming hangover looks worse and maybe he can avoid it if he’s just never sober again.

They emerge from the elevator and stumble down the hallway to their room messily, Charlie bumping into him when Luka couldn’t get the keycard in right the first time, laughing into his ear from over his shoulder—

“Let me do it.”

“I can do it  _just fine_ ” with a huff, frustrated and drunk.

“Touchy, touchy,” Charlie says with a laugh as he slips a hand under Luka’s shirt, low on his abdomen and sliding lower. Luka’s breath hitches when it dips just below his waistband then—with a  _click_ , the door unlocks and he laughs, turning the handle and twisting himself out of Charlie’s arms.

 

 

_luka surged forward when amelia made the mistake, didn’t catch the ball or send it flying—reacted in an instant and then—there it is. his first goal for croatia._

_he’d headed into the locker room at halftime with adrenaline and pride thrumming in his veins—mladen dangling their traditional cigarette in front of him, saying something about getting this later—and charlie’s getting ready to come in for the second half—his first cap._

_they’d been coming up through dinamo together—had been out on loan together—had unwittingly become somewhat attached based on familiarity when nothing else around them was constant or known. charlie was easy to get along with—easy to like—and he dragged luka out against his will regularly. was how they’d started hanging out in the first place—charlie practically pulling him physically to a bar, telling him to actually “get to know zagreb” which apparently meant its nightlife. it was fun to watch—charlie in his (other) element, technically the opposite of defense—and yet, there were similarities, echoes of the self-assured corluka he’d seen on the pitch—what charlie would have claimed as confidence and anyone else would have seen as reckless._

_until, of course, he hit the point in the night where it became fuzzy—trying to keep up with charlie had probably been ill-advised. luka’d had the most fun at breakfast the next morning, actually, despite being extremely hungover. charlie had told him it “happens to the best of us” which luka obviously knew, but he’d said it fondly—and couldn’t get over that he’d even tried to keep up at all._ you’re so much smaller than me!  _he had incredulously said, and luka recognized the familiar spike of irritation at that—charlie’s not the first person to comment on his stature seemingly lacking—but he didn’t quite yet understand what flares underneath._

 

 

Luka backs himself into the room and Charlie follows—leaning now against the wall, trying to look collected.

“Can you not stay up?” Luka asks him from the bed where he’s just sat cross-legged. “Can’t handle your vodka anymore—” he  _tsks_ “you’re getting old.”

He flops onto his back, hearing Charlie chuckle—didn’t touch too sensitive a nerve.

“ _You’re_ getting old, kapetan,” as he crawls next to him on the bed and turns over, them now laying side by side. “How many years you been doing this?”

Luka tips his head onto Charlie’s shoulder, says dreamily, “getting drunk in celebration of making history for Croatia? Just the one.”

They both laugh, then exhale deeply—it should be hard to believe—Luka’s going to wake up on the plane to Moscow any moment, getting ready to try to do what he’d dreamed—but even just lying there, there’s something deep in his bones that only 32 days of pushing himself beyond what anyone thought possible can provide—something  _resonant_ that swirls with ache and pride alike. No dream can give him that.

Charlie rolls over onto his side, hooks a leg over Luka and starts nuzzling into his neck—has always been an incredibly clingy drunk—usually grabbing at you so he can crouch down and talk to you closely—but if he drinks enough—and tonight, they’ve all drank enough—he forgoes any conversation. Perhaps if he can’t talk to you, Luka muses, he’ll try to crawl right into your skin instead. Charlie turns his head towards him and kisses him head-on—like he knows Luka’s getting too into his head already, is going to get there first.

It works— _it always works_ —Luka bites at his lower lip and Charlie makes a noise that thoroughly distracts him from anything else. He pulls himself up to straddle Charlie, who shudders when he grinds down on him, fingers that have threaded in Luka’s hair grabbing tighter—pull not so gently. His breath hitches immediately, and then his eyes look at Charlie mischievously— _you’ll pay for that_. Luka knows exactly where to press softly—to press not so softly—to ghost over with fingertips and to scratch and bite—knows it all absentmindedly, the information stored away a long time ago—doing this for, shit—a decade, more than a decade.

 

 

 _after the match, after they beat the world champions, after they’d gone out, at charlie’s insistence, to celebrate—luka’s back is against their hotel door, hemmed in by charlie—one hand next to his ear, the other on the handle—as he talks about how very sober he is and how he could most certainly open the door if_ someone  _had not taken the key—_

_“you could not. you barely made it up the stairs without me.”_

_“those were my legs,” luka replies as if that was obvious._

_charlie bows his head down to luka—eyes flicker down to his lips then back—luka can see the smart remark behind his teeth—and he’s still mid-laugh when they kiss._

_then charlie grins against his mouth—turns the handle, pushes the door open—luka stumbles backwards—nearly trips until the last minute—charlie grabs his wrist and pulls him back. despite his assertions, luka is not sober enough to not immediately fall against charlie’s chest—arms swing around his neck—_

_“Hi” luka says up to him—bright, unfeigned._

_luka is—not Serious, but he can be serious—but he isn’t right now. his eyes sparkle like they do on the pitch—soft around the edges where they were sharp. charlie holds his weight up—for the lingering pause until luka plants his feet firmly, though still leaning on him slightly._

_“you’ve had too much to drink,” charlie says down to him—the chuckle around it says how uncomfortable he is being the responsible one. or at least—unfamiliar._

_luka’s response is to simply fall back down onto the bed—grabs his hands, takes charlie with him. he kisses him again—before he can say anything._

 

 

Luka strokes him, casually—drunk and slow, lazy because both his mind’s fuzzy and he knows how frustrating it is for Charlie. Practically a vague grip on him, a suggestion of touch, and Charlie squirms underneath him—bucking into nothing as he makes a noise between a moan and an irritated  _hmphf_. Luka laughs softly under his breath, even still, at how needy and huffy he is. But he does take pity and his grip tightens, jerks him off much more earnestly, quicker. His sudden pace change is clever and unexpected, and Charlie groans—his head’s spinning, they’ve had so much to drink, all the blood’s trying—slightly in vain—to rush to his cock even as it makes him dizzier.

“Feeling unfair—” Charlie correctly assesses “—that you're so disproportionately still clothed.”

Luka pulls off him to tug off his shirt and kick off his sweats—runs the heel of his hand over his own cock, gives it an idle stroke.

“Shit,” Luka huffs out as he gets back in bed, feeling warm but still—all that vodka. “I don’t think this is gonna happen.”

He expects a response—at least a  _Hm?_ —but when he looks back over at Charlie, his eyes are closed and his dick is only feebly trying—and failing—to stay hard. Luka cracks up, an absurd noise suddenly in the silence, as he shoves Charlie, who finally retorts with a  _huh_ , incredibly dignified.

“I don’t think this is gonna happen,” Luka repeats as he eyes both of their dicks pointedly then flops back down next to him. Charlie laughs when he catches up.

“Betrayed! By my own...had to happen at some point though, huh—certainly to you, old man.”

“ _I’m_ the old man?” Luka replies incredulously, though not particularly seriously. He  _is_ an old man—or...he is, in this world he’s lived in for so long, an industry not particularly kind to age and with a pretty warped idea of what’s considered old. Before that thought can root in his brain—blossom sharply, too heavy for tonight—he shakes his head, physically willing it away. Looks directly at Charlie, with his dumb lazy smile and crinkling eyes—so very, very drunk.

“Says the guy who fell asleep during sex.”

“ _Resting my eyes_ ,” he stresses, as they flutter closed again—soft, and the whole atmosphere’s hazy—they’ve drank enough tonight that even as he’s pickled, he knows the only thing he’s going to remember about this is...  _this_ —how he’s feeling right now, somewhere new at the end of a road forged through memories and hope and disappointment and promises—and he’s there with—

Luka snorts at the excuse, and uses it to push all that down—it’s too much, tonight—a night that is so clearly fighting to pick apart everything even if he just wishes it wouldn’t.

 

 

_luka wraps his hand around charlie—fumbles awkwardly first, spits into his hand—charlie laughs, murmuring something about that totally working, and luka drags his hand up charlie’s cock, rolls his thumb over the tip—charlie shudders and now he gets to laugh._

_“fuck—”_

_he—luka—doesn’t really know what he’s doing—beyond any knowledge gathered on solo missions, anyway—but charlie seems to like it, judging by the little noises that keep escaping his mouth—his mouth, pressed close to luka’s neck, moving up his jaw—biting and kissing his way to luka’s ear, nipping at his earlobe. mumbling almost-words so close to luka, the whispers resounding—luka’s hips roll of their own accord._

_charlie makes an amused sound and grabs luka's hips to bring him closer—he ruts against charlie's thigh—Finally Some Friction. keeps jerking charlie off—s’weird to have his cock in my hand, luka briefly considers, before thinking that it really doesn't feel that weird at all._

 

 

“Hey,” Charlie says with a flick to Luka’s temple, knowing very well what’s going on in there, “Come back here.”

Luka’s going to be dismissive, like  _where else would I be_ —but Charlie immediately rolls over and starts kissing his neck—nibbling, biting, sucking—and he doesn’t say anything—hitches in a breath of air, as Charlie hits that particular spot, and a bruise— _red and blue_ , Luka abruptly thinks, as he twists his neck into Charlie and sees a flag on the floor—begins to bloom underneath his mouth.

He knows Charlie’s not warming him up for anything more—that ship having sailed a veritable sea of vodka—but it loosens him, and the sparks in his head that want to catch and light die down finally. Loses himself in Charlie’s mouth all over him, moving down his neck—in the corner where it meets his shoulder, in the dip of his collarbone—sucks another hickey into his chest as Luka gently writhes against the hand that Charlie’s since put across him to hold him down.

“There,” Charlie says when he pulls himself away from Luka—Luka shivering and arching just—

 _there you go_ , Charlie might whisper, or he might not—he has before, and Luka’s head is swimming. He already feels his brain stretching too big for his skull—a telltale sign of the morning to come—and his lips are dry. He knows what he should do—down a giant glass of water and then probably another for good measure—but he’s so fucking tired and drunk and  _pleased_. Luka closes his eyes and the last month whirls in his head—showing up equal parts hopeful and wary, finding their footing as a team—the smells—sweat, grass, the plastic of a new kit—the tastes—beer, so much beer, Charlie’s favorite hole in the wall they snuck off to, Charlie—bright flashes of colors and endless screaming—the vociferous _Crash_ of the very final whistle blaring out disappointment, the crescendo rising full of pride as the people he’s played football for his whole life welcomed them home, heroes resplendent.

They did something incredible, together, and when Luka thinks about it— _god_ , he might explode with how overwhelming it all is. And it’s easier to stay here, in this moment, in this bed with Charlie—too fucked up to move, warm and _pleased_.

 

 

_luka’s keeping a steady rhythm on charlie, his own hips rolling—rutting against charlie’s thigh still—it’s enough, tonight, when his whole body hums with a strange energy—residual adrenaline clouded by the fog of inebriation. he hasn’t fucked like this—fumbling and confused, a little desperate, drunk and heated—in a while, and it feels good. charlie’s still talking—of course he’s a talker—but it’s mostly attempts—can’t get out more than one syllable at a time over labored breathing until a litany of curses just spills out as he comes all over luka’s hand. not a warner, then._

_he’s not sure what to do with his hand now, but somehow it feels natural to just raise it to his mouth—drag his tongue across his palm—sucks on two fingers—as charlie lets out a whispered shaky_ fuck _. he reaches down, going to touch him—but luka presses closer, makes it so he has to grab his hip, as he keeps thrusting against him. he wants—he wants him to—some day, next time maybe—but it’s too much—everything’s too hot and he’s so close already. feels blunt nails in his side, sees his cock leaking all over charlie’s thigh, christ, he’s—_

_“gonna come,” he mumbles and then—charlie shifts his leg against his cock, that’s new—he does, leaning forward and biting at charlie’s shoulder to stifle the noise._

_“you’ve made quite the mess,” charlie says when luka’s breathing finally evens out and he rolls over—laying side by side. “hotel cleaning’s going to hate you. mr. football superstar, leaving jizz-covered sheets in his wake.”_

_“shut up,” as luka gives him a sleepy but playful shove. he does consider trying to wash the sheets though—he could still end up in hotel management and figures that kind of karma going into the industry cannot be good._

_“hey—i’m just the bartender,” he raises his hands in mock surrender. and then— “you’re not going to work in a hotel,” charlie somehow continues the conversation in his head eerily._

_“yeah?” luka asks, “you’re so sure?”_

_charlie makes a face at him. “yes, of course. the whole world will know who luka modrić is—no hotel’s gonna make that happen.”_

_that—wasn’t what he expected, and the warmth that diffuses through him is immediate and a surprise._

_“yeah well…that kind of fame can’t be manageable. not without a bartender, anyway.”_

_a gravelly laugh pours out of charlie as he pulls luka into his arms—mutters something about promising that they’ll give washing the sheets a go in the morning—just in case._

 

 

“What if we’d gotten that hotel together—like we joked about back in school?” Luka blurts out—apropos of nothing, because in the comfortable silence, his mind drifted through nostalgia—and he hasn’t thought about that in awhile.

Charlie smiles against his skin—recalling their brief foray into a respectable trade, should the impossible dream of  _professional footballer_ not actually come to fruition. They didn’t last long there.

“We’d probably be running a B and B whose success is entirely contingent on our charismatic sexual tension, so I’d be in bed with you tonight. So not too different, really.”

“Yeah?” Luka asks, a sleepy smile playing on his face. He rolls over into Charlie’s arms. “How long would it have taken us in that universe?”

“Oh, much shorter” like it’s obvious. “So many more opportunities to have to share a bed.”

“I’m fine with this universe,” Luka mumbles into Charlie’s chest, a funny little admission that's heavier than it sounds.

Charlie chuckles—always good at dispelling tight energy without making Luka feel condescended—and just replies  _yeah, me too_ into his hair. 

 

 

you have a heart of gold  
and I am kneeling in your bloodstream  
panning for the only thing that has ever felt like home.

– andrea gibson, _Staircase_  

**Author's Note:**

> \- if you're thinking right now...wow glennifer, you're really cheese to make up these old marrieds running a b&b together then you'd be wrong! cause thats all facts, baby!! i was given the information that they actually went to school together for hotel management in case football didn't work out and i was so Verklempt about it, i had to add in a lot about it. THANKS CAITLIN!!!  
> \- speaking of caitlin, this is for you!!! ♡♡♡ it was entirely an excuse to use vomit out some soft pornos and i hope you like!!  
> \- since this is for caitlin, who knows vatreni probably better than the back of her own hand, i knew i could be vague in places. BUT IF YOU DIDN'T KNOW, luka scored his first goal for senior hrvatska in the same match that was charlie's first cap against italy back in 2006. we love a narrative!  
> \- so charlie's really done a number on me, huh? maybe i'll never write anyone else except for the idiot boy whom i am in love with


End file.
